


Why Can't You Behave?

by Blake



Series: Cole Porter 30-day challenge [7]
Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Blood, Consent Issues, F/F, Menstruation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:21:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22369363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blake/pseuds/Blake
Summary: Eve laughs like the wind is knocked out of her. Like she’s turned on. Villanelle smiles, turns her wrists self-pityingly in her handcuffs. If only Eve would let her eat her out. Then everything could go the way it’s supposed to go.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Series: Cole Porter 30-day challenge [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1610263
Comments: 4
Kudos: 66





	Why Can't You Behave?

“Oh, Eve,” Villanelle sighs, stumbling only slightly over the blood in her throat. She licks her tongue around in her mouth, sweeping up blood that’s pooled there from the wound Eve gave her. “Why can’t you just be a good girl?”

Eve laughs like the wind is knocked out of her. Like she’s turned on. Villanelle smiles, turns her wrists self-pityingly in her handcuffs. If only Eve would let her eat her out. Then everything could go the way it’s supposed to go.

“I dunno, maybe because being a good girl means letting you murder people? Including me?” Eve answers, pacing, always pacing. She puts her hand in the beautiful curls of her hair, shaking them loose. She’s so tense. Villanelle could help with that.

Villanelle clicks her tongue, _no_. “Do you squirt?”

Eve stops pacing. Villanelle grins, blood dripping down her chin. “What?” Eve asks, breathless. Breathless is good.

“I would make you squirt,” Villanelle informs her, nodding cockily and then transitioning to a sad, dismayed, shake of her head. “I’d make you feel so, _so_ good.”

Eve’s footsteps start clicking again. “I don’t see how you’re going to do that from prison.”

Villanelle squirms in frustration. Three minutes since Eve called the cops, only a few more before Villanelle will be faced with the tedious task of escaping the hands of idiotic, grabby men. “Have you ever been to Nova Scotia?”

It is always so easy to get Eve’s attention. “Um, no?” she answers, always so eager to engage in conversation, just like she’d be so eager around Villanelle’s fingers.

“Move to Nova Scotia with me,” Villanelle pleads, imagining it all so vividly. Dead, grey earth, a blood red sky, Eve’s long black hair blowing in the wind, the smell of her all over Villanelle’s face instead of smears of iron and copper. Unless Eve was on her period, and then Villanelle’s face would still be smeared with iron and copper. It would be great. She grins.

“Why would I do that?”

“So you won’t be distracted. You’ll behave, like you should.” Eve steps closer, looking at her with that black-glittery gaze, a galaxy of desire and fear and pity and want. “Come, sit on my lap,” she says.

And Eve does it, sort of. She climbs onto her, straddles one of her spread thighs and hikes up her dress and presses her soft wet heat right up there where Villanelle can hardly feel it through her jeans, where Villanelle can’t _touch_ because her hands are bound. It’s cruel. Villanelle is fuming, and wet, hard, and desperate. She smears the blood on her face against the white sleeve of Eve’s shirt, the only thing she can reach. “Like this?” Eve asks, so fucking _breathless_.

“You are a very bad girl,” Villanelle hisses, doing her best to tense her leg, clench it up against the pressure. “But if you move to Nova Scotia with me, start a farm with me, be good for me, then you can finally have me.”

Eve hums, but her eyes are shut tight and Villanelle can’t at all tell if she’s considering her proposal or she’s just moaning in pleasure from where she’s rubbing her infernal heat all over Villanelle’s pant leg.

“Just let me be your slave. I’ll take such good care of you. Eve,” Villanelle pleads, just trying to get another glimpse of Eve’s eyes, shut so carefully tight, because she’s using Villanelle like her favorite sex toy, a thing to be kept in a bedside drawer.

“But…” Eve stops rocking her hips, just seeping through her underwear through the wettest spot on Villanelle’s thigh. She doesn’t have to say the words. _My job. My marriage. My morality. My reputation._

“But _nothing_ ,” Villanelle answers, grinding up into empty air. “Just be good for me, Eve.”

Eve opens her eyes, meeting Villanelle’s gaze, and looking, _seeing_. Villanelle almost comes on the spot. She almost _has_ her. Eve is _hers_.

Then the door busts down with the sounds of angry men shouting in pathetically affected low voices, and Eve runs away. Villanelle is left with a wet spot on her thigh. the prospect of yet another escape, and the thought of Eve’s hair flowing in the cold, grey Nova Scotia wind. 


End file.
